Days Like This

Have you had a day where you've done nothing but think about what
could have been? Maybe even should've been? It's like looking yourself
over, and seeing the flaws there beside the attributes ,you ask why you
didn't see them as easily back then, because if you had been able to,
maybe you would have done things differently. Maybe made some
different choices, taken a different path, lived a different life, or loved a
different love.
Maybe it's the rain that sets us to thinking. It's raining right now. Let's go
outside and walk in it. Smell that cleaner air? Look up, right into the rain.
Feels good doesn't it? Wet and cool and clean all at the same time. God I
can't tell you how many times I've done this. It's been an experience.
May the cleansing continue.
Wouldn't it be great if the cleansing included second chances?
The more we walk, the more the inner-reflection toys with us. We begin to
talk to ourselves, to soothe ourselves. There were good reasons for the
things that we did and the way we did them. We find our justification, just
as we turn the corner. Heading in a new direction now, we scan the side-
walks trying to discover another kindred soul out for a jaunt in the rain.
We see many, but feel none, because we have not made eye contact.

"When I was twenty-one, it was a very good year . . ." "a very good year"
(Ah Frankie, I hear your words)

Do you like Frank Sinatra? Ever heard of him? Some of us man . . . . . . .
we've found him again, on rainy days like this especially.
Have you noticed that half- way through our walk we start feeling better
about ourselves? The would'ves and should'ves don't seem so bad
anymore, do they? We're actually a pretty good person, overall. We've
tried to live a good life, we've tried to help others, and we've made the
best out of what we had didn't we? Mmm, that rain feels good on our face.

We're getting closer to home now. Actually, up there at the light, we have
to take a left if we are indeed going home. We are, aren't we? If we take
a right instead, who knows where that'll take us.
. . . . . .But wouldn't that be exciting? Not knowing?
"When I was thirty-five, it was a very good year . . . ." "a very good year."
(Frank, how do you know so much about my life?)

Out of nowhere, this lady just ran across the street and bumped right into
us, didn't she? I mean come on, she can't be that bli . . .do you see her
eyes? Beautiful eyes, searching eyes. Let's help her up. Wow, she's got
great smiling eyes too. Did she just take your arm? Are we walking
together now? And is she putting her head back and laughing up into the
rain?
Well, we've reached the street corner. Is it left to home and security?
She's tugging on our arm, you know? Pulling us to the right. Let's go.

And so, what kind of day am I having today? I believe it to be a Friday, if
that makes a difference. And I guess that it does. Ever notice how you feel
different just because it's a certain day of the week? Why do most of us
feel better on Fridays than we do on, let's say, Mondays? Maybe because
Monday is the "start" of the work week, and we know we have alot to do
from then on until Friday arrives. Then when Friday does come, we look
back and say, "What a hell've week!" A sense of accomplishment usually
prevails. Knowing that you're going to have the next two days off doesn't
hurt the morale either.

Originally posted by SIEGE
And so, what kind of day am I having today? I believe it to be a Friday, if
that makes a difference. And I guess that it does. Ever notice how you feel
different just because it's a certain day of the week? Why do most of us
feel better on Fridays than we do on, let's say, Mondays? Maybe because
Monday is the "start" of the work week, and we know we have alot to do
from then on until Friday arrives. Then when Friday does come, we look
back and say, "What a hell've week!" A sense of accomplishment usually
prevails. Knowing that you're going to have the next two days off doesn't
hurt the morale either.

Unfortunately, Monday always arrives again, and too soon! It's a never-ending cycle of waiting for the week-end, which always takes too long to get
here and not enough time to pass. For some reason, time seems to move faster between Friday evening and Monday morning; or hey, that could just be me!

Days like today. The 5th of July, 2007. Yesterday was Independence Day,
yet I feel no more independent today than I did the day before yesterday.
I know, it's a political concept. But I'm thinking personal here.

Is there something in the air? I feel like picking up and moving on. I know
I can't really do it, but I certainly feel like I should. Something's coming.

Have you had a day like this? You know, one of those days when you know
that even though you've lost, . . .you've won? After reading some of the
posts today, I believe that Mr. Bush has arrived at his own level of
incompetence, thereby refuting some of the republican propaganda
created to make us believe that he was the right man for the times.

Years ago I voted for Gore, and still feel he was the better man. I later
voted for Kerry, and thought he was a better choice than Bush. Both times
I guess you can say I lost. But as time has gone by, I realize that my
"feel" for the candidates was truer than I knew. Mr. Bush has let me down
in so many ways, so many times, that I almost felt like I didn't have a
clue as to the "properness" of government any more.

Reading some of my fellow ATS'ers posts has relieved my worry.
Others out there like me are speaking up and speaking out. We're mad as
hell. And even though we've lost in the past, we're starting to win now.
People are beginning to see the corruption in this administration.
And thanks to Mr. Bush, we'll continue on our winning ways. After all, . . .
. . .he's just being himself.

It's not an "I told you so" feeling, it's a "damn, we were right all along"
type of feeling.

As I pull into the parking lot, I spot your car parked out behind the
restaurant, . . . .hiding. Afraid someone will see you? You know, you
could've just gone to work. The last thing I want is for you to get into
trouble just for meeting me here for breakfast.
As I walk in to find you, the wind picks up and blows leaves ahead of me,
leading me forward. I don't remember whose idea it was to meet for a
seafood breakfast, but I'm already liking the idea more and more, and the
whiffs of fresh-cooked fish set my stomach to growling.
I spot you sitting at a table by the window, your back to the fireplace. You
appear to be gazing out over the cliffs, across the ocean, lost in deep
thought. Creeping quietly up behind you, I kiss your neck softly and say
"Hello stranger!" You're back from the ocean now, and your laughing
eyes invite me to sit.
We order breakfast, which consists of fresh fruit, seafood crepes, baked
salmon, and corn muffins. A latte with whipped cream holds us over until
our food arrives, and we take turns laughing at each other's whipped
cream moustaches.
So when did we get enough courage to ignore our jobs and meet here like
this? I don't remember, but I like us this way. I feel younger. Do you?
Don't you feel like we're skipping school or something? And maybe
someone will see us and tell? Still, it's so nice being here with you right
now. God, I feel like we're running our own lives for a change.
Outside the wind begins to roar, and little raindrops pelt against the
_ Looking down into the ocean, we can see the foamy surf batter
itself into the foot of the cliffs. But we're inside and the warmth from the
fireplace and the wonderful food makes us giddily happy.
A glass of white wine finishes off our meal, and we reluctantly pay the
waiter and prepare to go. Holding hands, we head for our cars, the wind
blowing us against each other, physically exciting each other in an
innocent and unplanned movement. As we start to say goodbye . . . . . . .

My phone rings, and someone else walks into my office. They ask me
what I'm up to. I look out the window and say " Seafood!". "Just seafood!"
"Just thinking about the catch-of-the-day, that's all!"

And then I lean over and pick up the phone and say, "Good Morning! Can
I help you?"

Not that it mattered, but he was late for work again. Driving up to the
security gate, he slowed to a stop so the guard could check for his truck's
decal, located in the lower right corner of the passenger's side of the
windshield. Receiving the "proceed" wave, he made his way into the
parking lot and pulled into his reserved space. Not that it mattered.

Upstairs, he weaved his way through to his office, where, after turning on
the lights and coffee machine and the computer and the air conditioner, he
sat down in his very familiar chair and pondered his plans for the day.
Not that it mattered. It was just the right thing to do.

As the coffee began to brew, his office took on a comfortable air of routine.
He picked up the papers he had hastily finished on Friday and sorted them,
prioritizing them for routing and filing. Not that it mattered.

Next he picked up the phone, entering his secret code to enable the
system to retreive his messages. He listened to all of them, saving some
and deleting others until his mailbox was clean and empty. He got up and
went over to the coffee machine, pouring the pleasant-smelling black
liquid into his favorite mug, quickly lifting it to his lips and marveling at how
good it tasted when it was this hot. Not that it mattered.

And then it was time to sit down in front of the computer and get started.
He typed in his code-name and password and immediatly he was into his
favorite website. He clicked and was taken to his favorites. Clicking again,
he searched and scanned for any recent replies to his latest posts. And
now of course, everything mattered, didn't it? Because now it was a
coming together of like minds and souls. It mattered now because these
were his friends. And although he had never met any of them face-to-face,
he knew, somehow, that their kindred spirit was special all unto itself.

He began to think about rain, and walks. Breakfast, and talks. The
"what-ifs" of life. He was eager to hear how others handled this "day-
dreaming" thing. He wanted to read about their feelings, their thinking.
What about that little southern gal? Was she going to write something?
Or those poets? Would they write something? He hoped so. Yeah, it
mattered having something in common with others. His excitement rose
as he scrolled down the page.

Back in the office, a breeze blew gently in through the window, smelling
of freshly cut grass. He was off again.

Have you ever had a dream that was so vivid that the next day,
( today ), you still wonder about it? Why did you dream "that" dream?
Aah, days like this are for putting all the pieces to the puzzle back together
again. I DREAMED OF INVADING AREA 51 !

The rain had arrived and was predicted to last another few hours. At
precisely 20:00 hours, thirteen semis pulling fifty-three foot trailers began
arriving at various locations around area 51. At the same time, miles away
at The Church of Knowledge, the last church on the right on your way out
of Las Vegas, senior citizens were filling four chartered buses and getting
ready for their own ride to area 51. And at an abandoned air field in
Brawley, California, teams of volunteers were loading strange cargo
aboard two re-habilitated mail carrier planes once owned by the U.S.
Postal Service.
Phone calls were being made, the message saying "It's on!".
Volunteers from numerous T.V. and radio stations, after being notified,
loaded up their cameras and equipment and headed out on the road
towards area 51.
Under cover of the hard rain, the tops of the thirteen trailers were
removed, revealing state-of-the-art catapaults, all facing area 51's fenced
spaces. Three bulldozers were unloaded from flatbeds and placed in
specific locations. A van with sophisticated jamming equipment quietly
pulled into a dry riverbed and followed it downstream until it found a place
to conceal itself.
More phone calls were made, and more "wanna-be's" joined the
pilgrimage.
At 22:00 hours the signal was given to attack. Immediatly the electronic
jamming began. The two planes, having left Brawley on schedule, began
dropping whatever it could as fast as it could, in low sweeps over the
outskirts of area 51. Dummies with parachutes began to float down into
forbidden territories, setting off hidden motion detectors. At the same time,
the catapaults began hurling rubber chickens into area 51. In a short
while, thousands of rubber chickens lay everywhere, strewn from one end
of area 51 to the other. And still they came. Every seventh chicken
emitted a thick, sulfuric smoke that filled the air with rotten egg smells.

The bulldozers fired up and headed directly to the "no trespassing" signs
attached to the fences. In moments the fences were down and roads were
being bulldozed towards the center of area 51, where the installations
were coming to life, lights popping on and searchlights probing here and
there. Sirens could now be heard.
At the main gate, a heavily armored dump truck plowed through the
checkpoint, smashing the wooden barriers like twigs. It was followed by
numerous, outlandish-type dune buggies filled with blaring music and
insane drivers.
More phone calls were placed, important phone calls to important people.
Newspapers were notified. Washington was made aware. The word was
out, "the people were taking area 51!" No more lies, no more cover-ups.
"Power to the people!" "Deny ignorance!"
The buses arrived with the senior citizens and promptly moved onto the
base. All the windows in all the buses were down and loud singing could be
heard, "KUMBAYA MY LORD, KUMBAYA, . .OH LORD . .KUMBAYA!"
Rubber chickens continued to rain down all over the base.

Something moved steadily towards us through the smoke and rain. I
reached down for my . . . . .the cold chill rolled over me like death.

It started out like any other day, but it would end up being quite peculiar.

There are certain times of the year, here where I live, when the
opportunity to stretch can involve "the big four". I should explain more
about the "big four", so that you'll have a better picture of just exactly
what I'm talking about. On a good day, a particularly good day, one can
visit the desert, visit the mountains, visit the beach, and visit another
country all in the same day. And the experience is exhilarating to say the
least. So, . . .let's go, together.

We packed the night before so we could get an early start this morning.
A picnic basket full of goodies, a blanket, some towels, light jackets and
scarfs, extra water, and a tank full of gas. We have the truck loaded and
we're headed out of town just as the sun begins to come up in the eastern
sky.

What a sunrise it is. Cool pink, to streaky red, to soft yellow. We're on our
way east to Tecate, Mexico, where we'll get breakfast and do some quick
shopping before we head out to the desert. Arriving at the border check-
point, we park and walk over into Mexico, showing our I.D.'s to the guards
on the way. Working our way through the streets, we buy straw hats for
each other to keep the sun at bay. A small mexican restaurant invites us
in, and soon we're eating warm burritos stuffed with eggs and cheese,
accompanied by some beans and rice folded into fresh corn tortillas that
we dip in a spicy salsa. Hot coffee with real cream and sugar washes it all
down comfortably. We take pictures.

Back across the border into the U.S., we pull out and continue to head east
towards the Anza-Borrego desert, an hour or so away. It gets hotter and
more desolate the farther east we go, and we turn off the freeway and
head notheast now to Ocotilla Wells, our desert stopover. During the week
there is very little traffic and it seems we have the place to ourselves. We
hike down to the old train trestle. Even with our new straw hats the sun
is still the enemy, and we seek shade and shelter under the trestle and
pull out the water bottles as soon as we sit. The utter stillness of the
desert amazes us. Snakes and ants and an occasional spider. Nothing else
moves. No wind, nothing. Only stillness. We decide not to eat, but drink
more water. We take pictures.

Leaving the desrt behind, we take S2 to highway 78 and head west-north-
west. The roads begin an uphill climb and another hour later we find our-
selves in thick forest. Around and around we go, ever upwards, as we
climb the backside of the mountains to an old mining town called Julian.
Clouds are visible now, heavy white and gray clouds that seem so close
you could reach out and touch them. And what was that on our windshield?
A raindrop? Rain? You've got to be kidding. We stop at a place called
Look-Out Point, and we can see behind us, miles down into the valley, the
desert we left a few hours ago. What a view! We drive into the forest and
find an uninhabited camp site where we shall have our picnic. Laying the
blanket under a huge pine tree, we sit there silently, eating and listening
to the wind blow through the trees. Are we the only ones enjoying this
wonderful earth today? Seems like it. We finish off our submarine
sandwiches, our gatorade, and our canned pears just as the wind picks up
again and the rain begins to fall. Hightailing it back to the truck, we dive in
ahead of the torrent and just sit there again, listening to the rain beat
against the roof of the truck. Just us and the rain. When the thunder and
lightning start, we pull out onto the road, away from the trees, and head
due west towards home. We take pictures.

Driving down from the mountains, heading to the Pacific Ocean, we see
two or three rainbows left over from the earlier storm. It is now late
afternoon, coming on early evening. Is there really gold at the end of
those rainbows? Be nice, wouldn't it? Two hours pass by as we make our
way to the beach. The sky has cleared, and the sun is just begining to set
as we pull into the beach area. We get out quickly and walk bare-footed
in the surf, holding hands as the waves flop over us in repetitive motion.
The sound of the high tide mixes and mingles with the other sounds of
nature we've heard today. Across the street a seafood restaurant releases
aromas of wonderful dining. We go over and climb the stairs to the
second floor, where we find a nice table that overlooks the now almost
complete sunset. The sky turns red, and orange, and brown. A bottle of
fine white wine is delivered to our table and our glasses are filled.
We take pictures.

By the way, thank you for coming along. It's days like today that make
life just a little bit better.
(But why, if we took pictures, don't you show up in any of them?)

It's a beautiful September day, sunny and warm, and I can't help but feel
really good sometimes that I live on planet Earth. The "feeling" of a good
day reaches all the way to our bones, to our souls.
But today that good feeling has been over-ridden by apprehension. Some
of the posts I've read lately bother the living bejesus out of me.
Have you heard about that gigantic object in orbit around Saturn? Big
enough to be a huge alien spacecraft and shaped possibly like one. Not
the first sighting of such either. Many supposed cover-ups of same.
Have you heard about the deaths of those SDI engineers in the UK?
Something like 22 very strange deaths. Is there something so secret about
this program that warrants their suicides? And compare that to those
microbiologists in the U.S. who have died strangely in recent times. Again,
something so secret that it warrants killing all those involved?
Makes me wonder what's coming.
And surely, something is coming.
There is something going on that is so strange that it borders on insanity.
Something so secret that if "Joe Public" was to get wind of it, utter chaos
would result. So much goes on behind our backs. And I feel today, on a
day like this, that most of it will not be good for us.
When will this "need-to-know" mentality go away. Yeah, some of us don't
have a "need" to know. Need as in "have-to". But we want to know!
We WANT TO KNOW!
Days like today make me wonder.

A misting rain coats the window pain encasing a portrait-like scene of the rolling Tennessee hills beyond the glass. She stares longingly at the
beauty while chopping the onions and carrots for the thick, hearty stew planned for dinner. A fine, healing elixir for her little boy entrenched on
the couch due to a head cold that has robbed him of his usual bounce and vigor around the house. Between her meal preparations, she stuffs the
thermometer into his ear for the hundredth time to make sure his fever is under control and kisses his sweaty forehead for good measure.
The tv is talking as she bustles around the kitchen and glances at the rain. A general before the table with a look of a deer in front of searing
halogens.
"Mommy...look at his costume."
"Yeah...a costume..."

Funny how the truth drips freely from the mouth of youth.

She commits her chopped contents into the pan to saute and the rich aroma fills the kitchen to warm her soul. A silent heartfelt thanks is given for
the blessings in her life.
The costumed general continues to talk about the progress. On the eve of worst burning scourge ever to make its evil mark on our land, his words
teeter precariously on the side of blasphemy.
She glances at her son staring at the man on the tv and resists the temptation to turn it off. After all, he thinks his costume is cool.
She stirs the pan and adds a little flour for the roux. Her mind turns to an acquaintance who had recently lost her child, a soldier, in the war. She
said she sees him only in her dreams now and he is always about 8 years old. How she must long for the night all of her waking day......

Her stirring continues and she adds the broth a cup at a time. It's time for the boy's medicine and she dreads his tears when he sees the purple
liquid.
"Mommy...please...no Tussin! I feel good!"

Thank you so much, sdp333. A little bit of everything came forth on
your "Days like this." I felt like I was with her there, watching the news
on T.V. and chopping vegetables.
I wonder if you can smell that stew still?
Ah, the progress of war and killing on the eve of 09/11/01. Ironic isn't it?

The Above Top Secret Web site is a wholly owned social content community of The Above Network, LLC.

This content community relies on user-generated content from our member contributors. The opinions of our members are not those of site ownership who maintains strict editorial agnosticism and simply provides a collaborative venue for free expression.